


Vintage

by LaughableLament



Series: Supernatural Poetry Month [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brothers, Classic Rock, Community: spnapo, Gen, Memory, Men of Letters Bunker, Prose Poem, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:41:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6570226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean made tapes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vintage

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **[spnapo](http://spnapo.livejournal.com/)** on LJ.  
>  **Prompt:** Record Store Day, April 16: “...the greatest hits of mullet rock.” -Sam Winchester, “Pilot”

Dean made tapes: Clapton and Zeppelin. Dylan and Floyd. Buttered up every mullet or rep-for-cool-parents in every town. Boomboxes, tuned on classic rock. Button-fingers, just in case.

*

Dad only talked about Mom with the radio on. Some song or other would steal his stare, churn up a tale: V.F.W. New Year’s Dance, day Dean was born, first date.

“Your mom and I…”

And Dean’s face would turn up, leaf before a thunderstorm. First, fifth, fiftieth time.

Marshall Tucker Band.

“When _Star Wars_ came out,” Dad turned down the dial, “the drive-in up in Midland had per-car admission.” He scratched his chin, caught Dean’s rearview grin. “Your mom’s friend, Julie something, had this brand new white ’77 Impala.” Patted the wheel. “Huge. We called it the Love Boat.”

Sam sighed.

“So. One night we all drove up separate and piled in Julie’s car. I bet there was ten of us crammed in there. Lawn chairs in the trunk. Tailpipe throwin sparks.”

Sam mouthed along:

“They started charging per-person the next week.”

Dean punched his shoulder and Sam rolled his eyes.

*

Dean swiped blanks what he could. In desperate times he’d pocket truck stop dollar bin scraps. Scotch tape stuck just right and recorded right over.

*

Dad stumbled in. Early for him. Bag crushed around a bottlemouth. Dean rolled out but patted Sam at ease. Eye slits, sleep-breathed.

Man on a mission, Dad plopped, groped for the bedside clock. Zep. Fuzzy.

“This station,” slurred, “playin the whole damn album. I ain’t… ten years…”

“Dad?” Crackle voice. Back-of-the-neck blush.

“Mmm, right, guess you wouldn’t remember.” Dad drank, head thunked and eyes sank.

Records.

Burnt up.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

“Your mom loved The Beatles.” Dad laughed, all gravel and no humor. “She’d put on ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’ and you’d squeal. Soon as you were big enough you’d dance, shake your little butt around…”

Dean squirmed. Sam bit his lip to hide his giggle.

Later, Dean pulled off Dad’s boots and pulled on blankets. Crawled in with still-fake-sleeping Sam. Curled in behind him, trembled.

*

Dean stockpiles records: AC/DC, B.O.C. Scrapes for hunts in every two-bit town hawking vinyl.

*

“Caught us a case!” Dean shoves out a travel mug. “Pack for a week. Warm weather.”

Sam blinks.

“Decatur, Georgia. Looks witchy.” Dean spins him, bundles him back through the library.

“Hellova drive isn’t it?” Sam squints. And wasn’t that shithead _just_ saying…? “Dude. You just wanna check out that record store.”

“Do not.”

Flat look. “You need an intervention. _Every song_ is on the Internet. You get that, right?”

“You’re comin at me with MP3’s?” Dean shoves. “Philistine.”

“Caveman.” Sam drags out a duffle. Grins.

**Author's Note:**

> Two whole weeks of NaPoWriMo left! Come play! (Even if you're not on LJ. Holler at me! ^_^)


End file.
